


Opportunities Insufficiently Guarded

by skogr



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Wicked Grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 08:24:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11847708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skogr/pseuds/skogr
Summary: The best ways to cheat, Isabela told her, aren’t even really cheating at all, if you want to get technical about it. Merrill thinks about this as she holds her cards tight to her chest and eyes them all suspiciously across the table, even Isabela. Especially Isabela. They have to make convincing, after all.





	Opportunities Insufficiently Guarded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunspeared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunspeared/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Word and Deed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5025031) by [sunspeared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunspeared/pseuds/sunspeared). 



> A remix of [Word and Deed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5025031) for the [DA Remix Fest](https://daremixfest.tumblr.com/). This is a long time favourite and it was a delight to remix! (The title you might recognise from [this](https://youtu.be/3siofVxzsbY?t=1m54s) little gem of dialogue.)

_The best ways to cheat,_ Isabela told her, _aren’t even really cheating at all, if you want to get technical about it._ Merrill thinks about this as she holds her cards tight to her chest and eyes them all suspiciously across the table, even Isabela. _Especially_ Isabela. They have to make convincing, after all.

“Daisy,” Varric says patiently, “it’s your turn.” He doesn’t hold his hand fanned out like Merrill does, instead gathering them into one tight pile, which he holds lazily in one hand and occasionally taps against his chin thoughtfully. If she was better at this, she’d know what it meant. _It all means something_ , Isabela said, _even if they don’t know it_.

He’s too confident, Merrill decides. She thinks that was one of them.

“Go on,” Isabela says, and as Merrill looks at her she smiles slightly, and taps her index finger against her outermost card. It’s the signal they agreed on, and she feels giddy all over again at being part of Isabela’s grand scheme. This one means that Isabela has something powerful in her hand that she’s itching to use, and she’s looking for a set up. It’s not _cheating_. It’s just cooperating. In secret. Wicked Grace has no rules about that.

“Just a moment,” she says, and watches Varric’s grin spread ever so slowly across his face as he taps his bundle of cards against his chin again. Opposite him Aveline sighs heavily, their beleaguered fourth party, who may as well just stick her cards face up on her forehead and be done with it, or so Isabela says. This only makes him grin more.

Merrill knows the last card he picked up, because she discarded it a few turns ago. She watched him pick it up from the discard pile smooth as anything, and pretended not to notice he hadn’t drawn from the correct deck. She discarded it because it’s a cruel card, and she doesn’t like to play the ones like that. There are no gods of Wicked Grace, but if there were, this would be her offering at their altar. There aren't really any rules in Wicked Grace either, but if there were, she'd like to think that it makes up for any of the almost-rules she's about to almost-bend. It's the sort of thing the gods of Wicked Grace might like. Isabela talks a lot about honor among thieves, and this is Merrill’s.

Discarding is the opposite of stealing, and probably the opposite strategy most would try, but it isn't ignorance: she knows exactly what the card does. Maybe… maybe Varric doesn’t know that.

She looks at him, guileless, and he smiles back. Varric has always been kind to her, kind enough that her gratitude overflows when she thinks about it too hard, and kind enough that she notices the sharp, mischievous edge to his smile immediately. Varric has a lot of smiles, and the one he usually saves for her reminds her of brightly lit doorways in dark alleyways.

That's how she knows.

Isabela taps her cards again, more insistently. Perhaps she noticed too. _Remembering where things are is half the battle_ , she said. _If you can master that, you can beat almost anyone. Even Varric Tethras._ She'd laughed then, and Merrill had leaned forward eagerly. _Especially Varric Tethras._

That's what this is about, after all. Varric becomes generously greedy right after an advance from his editor, generous with his time and cards and wagers, but then greedy with the returns he expects. _He'll squander a good half of it anyway, kitten_ , she said. _I say we at least make sure it goes to a good home, and take him by surprise while we're at it. He really needs to learn he isn't half so good at bluffing as he thinks he is._

Merrill plays her card with a decisive flourish. “Song of Abstention.”

“Boring,” Isabela sing-songs, and then grins at her. “Who’s abstaining?”

“Aveline,” Merrill says magnanimously, because she looks like she needs it.

“Thank the Maker.”

“I guess that leaves me, then,” Varric says, fanning out his cards in his hand and pulling one out between two fingers, where he holds it in the air for a moment with a smirk. “Too bad, Rivaini. Angel of Charity, so hand the cards over. It’s time for you to be charitable.”

Merrill holds her breath.

“Too bad, indeed,” Isabela says, and Merrill can hardly contain herself as Varric reaches over to take his pick of Isabela’s hand. “Not so fast, now. I’m allowed a chance to redeem myself.”

“Redeem away,” Varric says, but he doesn’t look quite so confident. This is all part of it too, the drama, the suspense. _You play worse when you’re losing, kitten, it’s just a fact._ You need to drag it out, sometimes.

Isabela lets her fingers skim across the top of her cards a few times before she makes her selection. “Serpent of Avarice,” she says finally, placing it with a cheerful preciseness. “I'm going to need you all to provide a tithe.”

“Not Aveline,” Merrill reminds her, “she’s abstaining.”

“Better her than me.”

Aveline sighs and rolls her eyes.

Merrill takes longer to select her tithe than Varric, who slaps a card down irritably on the table straight away. She picks a Knight, which she doesn't need for her winning set of Songs, and because the illustration is one of her favorites. Isabela notices, because one corner of her mouth curls upwards, and Merrill beams at her.

“Back to you, kitten,” she says, and Aveline casts a suddenly sharp look between the two of them. Merrill stops smiling and frowns down at her cards. The plan is to fool Varric and not Aveline, but if she says anything, she could ruin it all.

Isabela passed her the Angel of Death a while ago. She's been keeping it safe between the Song of Grace and the Song of Wisdom, waiting for the right time. It isn't the right time quite yet, so she gives it a gentle pat and passes over it with a sigh.

“I'll draw,” she says, and takes a card from the top of the deck. It's another mean card, so she passes it immediately to the discard pile, and then rubs her nose. That's a signal, too. It means Isabela should pick it up when she can. She's trying to avoid using signals; they don't seem half as natural as they do when Isabela does them, but she thinks she's got away with it.

“I'll draw too, since my hand is half gone,” Varric grouses, and then to Merrill’s horror, she watches him take the same card she's discarded. You can't ever accuse anyone of that, not in Wicked Grace, though it's technically against the rules. She shoots Isabela a stricken look, who just shakes her head, and hardens her gaze. “Rivaini?”

Isabela is wonderful to watch when they're playing Wicked Grace, especially now Merrill knows all the ways and slights and cheating-that-isn’t-quite-cheating. Varric is good at pretending to consider the next move he decided on five turns ago, but Isabela is better. She runs her fingers across the top of her cards, then allows herself a tiny little smile, as if inspiration has suddenly struck, and then she evens out her expression into a doubly deceptive impassiveness.

“Knight of Truth, if we’re all drawing,” Isabela says, and it's Merrill’s favorite, a knight in gleaming green armor holding forth a glowing crystal. That means the next round must be truthful, or as close as it gets in Wicked Grace. They all have to play the next card they draw or discard face up, whatever the consequences. “Aveline, you can stop abstaining now.” She wiggles her eyebrows for good measure.

Aveline is still regarding them both with a distinct air of suspicion, but not disapproval. She places a card from her hand on the table silently, the Knight of Temerity.

“Interesting,” Isabela says, watching her closely. “Who are you playing it on? Yourself?”

“Merrill,” Aveline says carefully, and Merrill almost lets her jaw drop to the floor. She must know. Is Aveline _helping_ her?

“Temerity?” she says, because Isabela said it never hurts to play up her ignorance. _It's so charming when you do it, kitten,_ she said, _it makes everyone let their guard down a little, and it's lovely to watch._

“It means you can ignore the Knight of Truth,” Varric says kindly, just as she'd hoped. The Wicked Grace Varric is gone for a moment and replaced with the Varric who has pockets full of twine and gentle advice. “Just play as normal.”

“Oh, I see,” she says vaguely, and after a moment of pretend consideration - she doesn't overshoot it and risk exposing her poor acting skills, she just takes a few seconds longer before she reaches for her hand - she slips the Angel of Death face down onto the discard pile.  She sees Isabela start out of the corner of her eye.

It isn't cheating. You can discard it, _technically_ , though no one ever does. The discard pile gets flipped and shuffled back into the draw pile eventually, and it's not as though it's ever truly out of play.

Varric sighs and rifles through his cards mournfully; it's too obvious. He's become accustomed to profiting from what he thinks are Merrill’s castoffs, and he has his eyes on her latest. She's almost ready to burst. “Guess I'll pick up,” he says, and reaches for the discard pile.

Merrill watches him with wide, delighted eyes as he turns over the Angel of Death.

“Oh, shit,” he says distantly, confused - and Merrill flings her perfect hand of Songs down onto the table before he can even take a breath. “Damn, Daisy.”

“Grace, Wisdom, and Piety double their score with Temerity,” she says in a breathless rush, as Isabela starts to laugh.

“I can't contest that,” she says, and Aveline smiles and shakes her head.

“Me neither.”

“Well,” Varric says, still looking stunned, “I underestimated you, Daisy. Congratulations.”

“Me too,” Isabela says approvingly, and then winks at her across the table. “Best collect your spoils, then.”

“My spoils?” Merrill squeaks, and Varric slides the bag of coins across the table. Creators, she'd forgotten. The real prize had just been winning. “Oh, Varric, I don't know -”

Across the table, Isabela glares at her.

“You won it fair and square, Daisy,” he says, and she reaches for it hesitantly.

“Just promise me you'll still have enough to eat if I take this.”

“Of course he will,” Isabela says impatiently, “he’s rolling around in gold -”

“I wouldn't say _rolling_ , exactly.”

“ - you need to stop taking him at his word when he cries hard up, kitten. Varric’s idea of poverty isn't quite the same as yours.”

“As long as you're sure,” she says, and he chuckles as Isabela stands up and forcibly places the bag into her palms. It's a very satisfying feeling, the way the coins click purposefully against each other through the cloth as if they're eager to be spent. Is this why people become pirates? Perhaps she'd make rather a good one.

“I'm sure,” Varric says, “unless you're up for another game…”

“Don't even think about it,” Isabela says, and links her arm through Merrill’s and tugs her away, both of them grinning and giggling. Varric turns back to his beer with a long sigh, but she can tell now when he's not being fully sincere, and she feels even giddier with exhilaration.

“I can't believe it!”

“You were marvellous,” Isabela says fondly, “I never doubted you for a second. Look at all this, I can't believe he gets paid to write that swill -”

Merrill holds the bag in her palms as Isabela reaches in and seems to make a rough tally. “I rather like Varric’s swill.”

“I prefer his coin,” Isabela says dryly, and then looks up at Merrill with a sly grin. “Think of the hats you could buy with that.”

“Quite a lot, I should imagine.”

“Or just a few magnificent ones,” Isabela says longingly, but she smiles and pulls her hands back. “They're your winnings, kitten. What would you like to do with them?”

Merrill is a little flustered by the possibilities laid out in front of her. “Oh! I - I'd like a hat, I think.”

“Anything you want,” Isabela urges gently, “don't let me sway you.”

“But I like it when you sway me,” Merrill protests, earning a quiet laugh from Isabela. “You always have much better ideas than me.”

“Tell you what,” Isabela says, placing a soft palm on each of Merrill’s elbows, her hands still clutching the pouch of coins, “the first thing any pirate worth their salt would do is count this properly. Shall we do that? You can decide what you're doing with it later.”

It's almost dark by the time they've done another victory lap of the Hanged Man and taken a leisurely walk to the Alienage, and she's starting to understand the meaning of money burning a hole in your pocket. She takes Isabela’s hand with the one she isn't patting at the pouch every five minutes with.

“We could make our fortune,” Merrill says, “travelling the world and tricking people. Have you ever done that?”

Isabela smiles that faraway smile she has, the one that doesn't stop at Kirkwall’s borders and stretches far, far beyond. “I tried. I didn't make my fortune, though.”

"I'm glad you ended up in Kirkwall, even so,” Merrill blurts out, and then grips Isabela’s hand a little tighter. She hopes it is the sort of tighter that says _take me with you_ instead of _will you stay?_

“Me too,” is all she says, still smiling, and she squeezes her hand in return. “It's still a bit of a shithole, but it's a shithole that's been good to me, I suppose.”

“It's been good to me too,” Merrill says, and she stops suddenly, the vhenadahl spread out above them in the dark. She wonders who first planted it, if there was always space left for it to grow, or if it had to fight and crack the paving stones with its roots. It hadn't always felt like something that belonged to her and her kind, but it was familiar and comforting in its constancy, and was always obliging when she needed to attach twine to a branch or whorl.

Isabela comes to a stop too, tugged back by the grip she has on her hand. “Merrill?”

“I've had an idea,” she says, and pulls Isabela towards the vhenadahl, her other hand closing around the coin bag. Isabela stumbles over the roots; she doesn't know where she ought to be stepping in the dark. Merrill does. It's a curious thing, the kind of belonging she has found here.

She follows the grooves of its trunk with her fingers, more familiar with the shape than Isabela but still taking a moment to find what she's looking for: a thin gap that opens up to a small, round hollow, just out of sight unless you know where to look.

“Merrill,” Isabela starts, and then frowns as she takes out her pouch of hard earned winnings and gathers a small stack of coins in one hand. No single coin worth too much, but enough for a meal. Nothing that would draw attention. She slots them carefully into the groove, one by one. A glimmering row of second chances.

“Merrill,” Isabela says again, a little softer but with an edge of exasperation. Merrill just steps back and admires her handiwork, invisible to the casual eye.

“When I first came to Kirkwall,” she says, “leaving my clan, and… well, I found it by accident. No one would trade with me, and I could've asked Varric or Hawke, but sometimes it's good to make your own way, isn't it?”

“It is,” Isabela says, softer again, and Merrill watches the exasperation in her expression fade and change into something she can't read. She's so very good at that, and Merrill may have figured Varric out but she always has to wait for Isabela to play her final card.

“It might help someone,” she says, “like it helped me.”

Isabela holds out her hand and takes Merrill’s again. “It might.” She steps carefully out from the roots of the vhenadahl, her debt paid, and towards Isabela, who kisses her on the forehead instead of elaborating.

“You think I'm being silly, don't you?”

“I think you have a heart of gold, kitten,” Isabela says, and then smiles. “What about the rest?”

“Oh, I should think there's more than enough for a hat or two,” Merrill says, and she can hear the sea in Isabela’s rolling laugh.

  



End file.
